by Young
I questioned, “What is Zoroastrian?”
“Cutie,” the actress grinned, “Zoroastrianism is the world’s oldest religion. The believers reckon that the purpose in life is to ‘be among those who renew the world...to make the world progress towards perfection.’”
Dubois added, “Its basic maxims are:
● Humata, Hukhta, Huvarshta: Good Thoughts, Good Words, Good Deeds.
● There is only one path and that is the path of Truth.
● Do the right thing because it is the right thing to do, and all beneficial rewards will return to you.”
“Are both of you Zoroastrian?” I asked the Golden Couple.
Jamal responded, “Although I do live by similar principles to those Alain mentioned, you don’t have to be a Zoroastrian to eat here.”
Our group laughed when I raised my hand to ask another question. But Narnia and Albert gave me facetious glances, as if implying – here he goes again, the teacher’s pet.
I resumed, “What is Parsi?”
Sheik Fabrib remarked, “Young, Parsi is one of two Zoroastrian communities in India.”
“What’s the other?” I questioned.
“The Iranians,” came the reply.
“How did they come to be in India?” I asked.
“During the time of the Muslim Conquest of Persia, Zoroastrianism was the main religion in the region. Throughout the ‘Two Centuries of Silence’, the 200-year period when the Iranians rebelled against the Arab invaders; many Iranians who are now Parsis took refuge in India,” P verified.
My questioning came to a halt when we dug in to an appetizing meal of sali boti (mutton gravy with crispy fries), dhansak (chicken or mutton in a lentil gravy) and last but not least, Patra ni Macchi (steamed fish in banana leaf).
Digestif
As I sat having my after dinner digestif at the Taj, Dubois counselled, “Young, since you are interested in Zoroastrianism and the Parsi’s history, we’ll have a lesson on this subject at our next tutorial.”
As if I’d opened a can of worms, Albert and Narnia sneered at me when our teacher wasn’t looking. It was obvious the two didn’t care to sit through these tutorials about what I considered interesting topics.
Albert was all ears to the Count’s and Jamal’s flirtatious innuendoes, while Narnia was intrigued by the coquettish tittle-tattle of Aziz, Jabril, Coraline and Lihaar. My friends were obviously riveted by the possibility of an orgiastically charged evening. The prince, the sheik, Alain, Andy, Zac and I were left talking among ourselves.
Since the two aristocrats’ arrival in India, they had spent a large part of time together, especially in the evenings. Though they bid us goodnight separately, my professor, Valet and I knew they would be catching up on lost time in each other’s company when no one was watching, emerging independently from their respective chambers for their scheduled meetings the following mornings.
That evening was no exception to the rule, since it was their final evening together before P returned to Paris and Fahrib’s family visit to Sharjah – a junket he didn’t particularly care for.
When the three females trooped off to the powder room, Aziz adjured, “Young, be at my chamber in an hour with your chaperone. I’d like you to do something for me.”
“What do you wish me to do?” I asked.
“Come into my room an hour after the ladies and I bid our farewells. I’d like you and Andy to take some pictures for me. I’ll have my camera ready.” The Arab gave me an iniquitous wink before he added, “You know what I mean?”
“I’ll be there with this fella,” Andy answered. “We’ll capture some ‘engaging’ shots for you, sir.”
A few moments later, when I appeared from the washroom, Zac was waiting with a pronouncement, “Young, the Count wants you in his chamber in an hour.”
“But, I already promised Aziz to do his bidding. I can’t be in two places at the same time,” I exclaimed, bewildered.
“I’ll tell the Count you’ll be there as soon as you are available.”
“What does he want me for?” I questioned.
The BB whispered, “He wants you to be his cameraman.”
“Holy moly! Can’t you be the cameraman on my behalf?” I twittered.
“I’m not his apprentice; you are. I guess he prefers your artistic input.”
“I don’t know how long Aziz wants me to be with him. I can’t leave halfway through his shoot.”
By the time Andy, Zac and I had finished our private deliberation, both chaperones agreed that I could be perceived to be in two places at the same time.
The Sultan Suite
Since Aziz had given us permission to access, Andy and I entered the Sultan Suite without knocking. As we drew closer to the bedchamber, whiffs of sensual sexuality wafted to my nose. Intertwined bodies in throes of passionate foreplay greeted my guardian and me within the candlelit room. The Arab photographer and the Levantine historian, encircled by three semi-naked women, were in stages of amorous dispositions. The women rotated their oral stimulations in synchronicity on their throbbing prized possessions.
We were stirred to involuntary hardness by this sexual decadence. The men’s glistening stiffness had blossomed into shades of irresistible rosiness. When Andy detected my urge to partake in this arousing feast, he held me back, instead guiding me to the pre-set camera on the table.
The camera took on a life of its own when I clicked at every ravishing angle my eyes beheld. While this erotica unfolded before me, images of my first photo-shoot with the Count at the “Countess Cornaro” flashed through my mind. In the most beguiling way, this fashion maverick had captured his models by contorting this way and that, as I did now. He once said, “Electrifying images of remarkable flair are the ultimate valour of true artistry.”
I found myself emulating the Count’s gander as I rotated around the candlelit boudoir for details. With professional precision, I had become my master’s apprentice.
My involuntary erection refused to subside as the amatory panorama played out enticingly, luring me to partake in its debaucherous web of carnal indulgence. In heated passion, the females yearned to receive the men’s bulbaceous virility as their fiery flames burned incessantly with each passing moment.
I was absorbed by my task at hand when Andy indicated that the time had arrived to hand over my assignment to him. My next venture would be to the Maharajah chamber, to capture the Count’s erotic quest.
The Maharajah Chamber
I snuck unnoticed into the adjacent room, where another orgiastic indulgence was in full swing. It was Zac who guided me into the dimly lit chamber and handed me a loaded camera.
“Go and have a ball,” my big-brother whispered sardonically. “Hey, don’t forget, you are the sorcerer’s apprentice, and your master wizard expects superb pictures from you.”
Giving my BB an uncanny smile, I uttered, “I don’t know if I can live up to such a task.”
On the King were two sinewy males actively servicing the strapping Italian. The strikingly handsome dancer was straddling the hairy photographer, his drumming hardness coddled inside the machismo’s mouth as Mario relished the protrusion with feverous gusto, wetting the throbbing length with salivary potency.
Behind Jamal, Albert was suckling the Italian’s bulging protuberance and lapping at the plumpness below. The dancer’s seductive buttocks plummeted rhythmically as he fed his stiffness into the Count’s oral hollow.
This homoeroticism had inflamed my libido. Transfixed on their erotic prowess, my palpitating puissance throbbed unceasingly within my trousers. I craved to partake in their uninhibited proclivities and be free of the constraints of my apparel.
Zac was the one who nudged me back to my photographic sorcery. I clicked away from left to right and from above to below, capturing the fiery intensity that prevailed throughout the course of my arousing mission.
When Jamal’s pulsating organ eased conspicuously down Albert’s throat and Mario’s hardness ca
me close to impaling the boy’s silky bottom, Zac initiated my return to the Sultan Suite.
I left the Maharajah reluctantly, hoping upon my return to engage in this irrepressible propensity and to share in this turpitudinous folly that had so stirred me.
In the Sultan Suite
Andy was eagerly awaiting my reappearance. He had nailed as many engaging pictures as he could, and he had done superbly – but I didn’t know that yet.
When I regained position, Lihaar had straddled Aziz’s firmness, and Jabril’s thickness was gyrating within her derriere. The men rocked into her in rhythmic synchronicity while moans of zealous fervencies rose in crescendo from the singer’s throat.
Coraline seized the opportunity and plunged her tilting pelvis onto the actress’s face. As if executing a perfect dance the Indian twirled her lecherous tongue into the big sister’s blossoming crevice. Afraid the dark-haired female would evade her pleasure vault, Coraline’s tenacious hands gripped her tightly.
Aziz drove his slithering tongue into Narnia’s wetness, teasing her nether region to groans of rapturous ecstasy. His probing fingers buried deep in her rousing bottom, driving her to bouts of climactic liberations. She shuttered unquenchably to each heaving motion of intimate deliverance. Waves of euphoric ecstasies filled her girlishness. She delivered her youthful exuberance again and again until her heaving breasts laid heavy against the Arab’s muscular chest.
After all, I had been taught by great masters of the day – and I was the sorcerer’s apprentice. Therefore, no encouragements were required for me to capture affectionate kisses and private embraces from every bewitching angle. But my task was by no means over. Exotic shots of erotic discharges arrived in the shapely form of Ms. Lihaar riding both phalluses with abandon.
Like her little sister Narnia, Coraline had delivered curls of billowing euphoria onto the actress’s face, coating the flawless beauty with dribbling wetness before lapping at her deliverance with sensual jubilations.
The men could no longer withhold their deposits. Sprays of masculinity filled the actress as she milked their pounding manliness to blissful nirvana.
Together, my chaperone and I had garnered superlative shots for our patron when we left the Sultan cavern quietly, returning to the Maharajah in pursuit of a saturnalia of unbridled revelry.
Within The Maharajah
Andy, Zac, and I could no longer stifle our manhood to ignore participation within the confines of this erotic boudoir.
I clambered naked onto the King, to receive the men who, thus far, had tantalized my libido to heightened states of satyriasis.
Albert and I shared the Count’s jouncing obelisk with unrestrained fervour as we took turns devouring this prized delicacy as if it were our last supper. At the boy’s rear, the actor plundered my friend’s tenderness with the athletic virtuosity that only seasoned dancers possess.
Zac’s insertion filled my being in a single stroke. I received his manhood with whimpering moans as our lips met in fervent kisses. His seductive succulence twirled into my receiving hollow as his amatory masculinity dominated my core with absolution.
Andy beckoned his charge to straddle his throbbing column when he laid next to the Italian. Albert did as was told, leaving the Indian free to explore other uncharted enclaves. Straddling his guardian, the boy bounced jubilantly on his big brother’s curved pillar before Mario replenished his virility into the adolescent’s yearning recess. It was sweetened by my memories of my first double entendre with the Count and my Valet at Casa Rossa not so long ago.
Jamal’s rhapsodic entry caused me to shudder at the gliding length alongside Zac. Sporadic tears of agony and ecstasy overcame my person as I welcomed the onslaught of my very own double entrée. This eclectic liberality elevated my soul to waves of undulated bliss. The engorgements had suffused me into an emotional provenance.
No longer able to withhold this rapturous enchantment, I spewed my potency onto Zac, coating his sinewy torso with creamy fluidity. Their rhythmic gyrations within the tightness of my being enthralled their synchronized ejaculations, filling my core to overflowing capacity, just as our partnering group had contemporized their climaxes in consummated harmony.
As we savoured the afterglow of an evening of exotic erotic delights, our bodies remained entwined until slumber overshadowed our exhaustion. Only then did we return to our tranquil chambers before tomorrow’s adventure to the city of Sharjah.
PART FOUR
United Arab Emirates – Sharjah
Singapore – Singapore City
Sultanate of Oman - Musandam Dibba Al Hisn
Chapter Forty
Forbidden Fruits
“The more things are forbidden, the more popular they become.“
Mark Twain
Christmas Eve 2012
Continuation of my Message to Andy (part one)
Hi Loverboy,
I wish you a very Merry Yuletide, and I hope 2012 had been good to you. I’m back to tantalize you with my 1970 experience at OBSS. LOL!
Without further ado, this is how I remember the unfolding events.
Curious Kim was eager to find out what had transpired after Jules left our tent. I was pretty sure my tent-mate was gay. He, like me, had the hots for our handsome instructor.
Though I revised the story to that of Jules sticking his tongue into my mouth during my resuscitation process rather than the other way round, Kim found my narration titillating. He pressed me to tell him what it was like to kiss Jules.
I queried, “Why don’t you make a move on him to find out?”
He was shocked by my suggestion and exclaimed, “I would never do such a thing!”
“Why not?”
“Because… because I’m not that way inclined,” he said.
Although I did not press him to admit his homosexual tendencies, I asked, “Are you afraid of getting caught?”
He was taken aback by my boldness. He went silent before commiserating, “No one is a homosexual in Singapore, let alone at the Outward Bound School.”
I burst out in laughter. “Are you kidding me? What planet do you come from?”
The Eurasian added, “It’s illegal to be a homosexual in this country.”
I challenged, “Just because the government ruled against homosexuality doesn’t mean gay people don’t exist.”
He looked around conspicuously before he countered, “If you say these kinds of things, you’ll be expelled.”
“Are you telling me you don’t fancy our instructor?” I pressed.
As if I had cornered him, he stammered, “I… er… like him. He’s my teacher. Of course I like him.”
“You don’t get aroused when he’s close to you?” I exerted.
Caught off guard by my question, he looked confused. He did his best to look composed.
“I’m not Singaporean,” I stated. “If they expel me, I’ll return to England where I can be who I am.”
My line of reasoning seemed to relieve his anxiety somewhat. “Will you promise to keep a secret if I confide in you?” he muttered.
“Off course, mate. You can tell me anything. Anything at all. I’m good at keeping secrets.”
I made the sign of a cross with my hand to show my sincerity.
Kim whispered, “Some years ago, my American uncle came to Singapore to visit us. We shared the same room.”
He continued, “When he slept in his underwear next to me, I was enthralled by his butchness. I turned on my side in an attempt to hide my arousal. In the wee hours of the night, he would sprout an erection.
“I was afraid and confused, yet extremely excited. I masturbated quietly, while desiring to touch the hardness that had peeked out from his brief. I couldn’t fall asleep until I jerked off.
“One night while wanking, his hand moved up my thigh. Before long, he was jerking my dick. I reciprocated.
“In the morning, there was no mention of what transpired. But we would play by night and pretend nothing unusual had happe
ned by day.”
I twittered, “Did anything develop from the liaisons?”
“No. We never exchanged words about it. It was purely to get our rocks off. But…” he went silent.
“But? Carry on,” I encouraged.
“It was difficult. I cried and missed him terribly after he returned to the States.”
“Did he write to you?”
He said remorsefully, “He wrote me a generic letter but mentioned nothing about our encounters.”
“Do you still miss him?” I asked.
The boy sobbed quietly before replying. “I haven’t told anyone about this until now.”
Putting my arm around him, I enquired, “Would you like to have a fling with Jules?”
“I can’t. It’s not allowed.” My tent-mate turned away uneasily.
“Not allowed by whom?” I questioned.
“By the authorities.”
“The only authority that’s stopping you is you. Are all Singaporeans afraid of authority?”
He hadn’t expected me to ask such an unorthodox question. “You don’t know who is listening or watching your every move,” he shushed.
“Where I come from, we speak our minds.”
“You are one of the lucky ones to go to school in England. I wish I could go to an American school.”
He paused before resuming, “My parents are very strict. That’s why I’m here at OBSS.”
I injected, “You don’t want to be here?”
He shook his head timidly.
“Neither do I. Let’s do something roguish and get expelled together,” I joked.
The lad exclaimed, thinking my deliberation serious. “Good god, No! My parents will be furious. They’ll lose face and be devastated if I misbehave.”
“Are you going to be forever under your parents’ control?” I voiced. “You are here to learn to take responsibility for yourself. Now is the perfect time to come into your own,” I championed. “Do something you truly desire, not what others want you to do.”